


Chain of Command

by mathildia



Series: Domestic Hydra Husbands and Steve [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Cuckolding, Cutting, Dirty Talk, Handcuffs, Kneeling, M/M, Masochism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sadism, Smoking, cigarette burns, crawling, dominance hierarchy, endless homophobic slurs, hot power top jack rollins, pain slut steve rogers, romantic hydra husbands fluff, this is really horrible but everyone is consenting, verbal feminisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mathildia/pseuds/mathildia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I was thinking of hurting you right here.” Jack presses a forefinger to the indent between Rogers’s great, smooth tits. “Right where you got that star on your dumb fucking uniform. Pretty, huh?” Jack scratched at the skin there with his fingernail. “Nice to know that showgirl star’ll be pressing and rubbing on the place your daddy’s own daddy likes to hurt you best of all…You want that?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chain of Command

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Порядок подчинения](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543281) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



> Thanks to everyone who cheered this on on tumblr, you sick fucks

There’s a bruise on Rogers’s cheekbone; Brock punched him there early on - so hard the skin split - but it’s knitting back together now, healing up eerily fast.

And on Rogers’s left biceps is a perfect imprint of Brock’s teeth. Almost the size of a saucer. It was a fucking nasty, angry red when he did it a while ago, now, it’s already turning black. Every time he looks at it, Brock’s dick twitches to think of the way Rogers screamed.

Rogers is covered in welts and handprints, scratches and shallow cuts from the flick knife Brock threw on the floor half an hour ago. They’ve been at this a while and Rogers is almost, just, totally, gone. Head rolling against the pillows, jaw so slack and loose, mouth so wet and open; Brock could probably shove both his fists right in there if he felt like it. Maybe he will.

Pain gets Rogers this way - he’s been hard for hours, but Brock has no intention of letting him come for a good long time yet. He has Rogers is on his back, three lubed fingers working inside him, making him keen sloppily for dick. _Dick he’s not getting until, until…, heh, until he fucking deserves it, that’s when._

There were many ways to approach the problem of restraining Captain America for an afternoon of this type of relentless sadomasochism. Maybe some super heavy-duty restraints that, if he wanted to, Rogers could escape by snapping the entire bed frame in half. Brock had other ideas. Rogers likes to keep his word. Brock could tell Boy Scout Rogers to keep his hands on the headboard and _don’t fucking move them, sweetheart_ , and that would work as well as all the industrial bondage the SHIELD labs could produce. However, today, he has used a pair of standard issue cuffs because, for all his military training, he still has an eye for the aesthetics, for the ornamentation. He might be a sadist but he’s still a fucking fag.

And he’s ratcheted them too tight, because he’s also a nasty bastard and he doesn’t want Rogers to forget that.

Brock reaches across with his free hand and touches Rogers’s chin, adjusts it a tiny fraction, and Rogers opens his eyes, looking up, through big, slow blinks. He is such a mess. “You’re fucking pretty like this, sugar,” Brock says.

Rogers’s chest heaves, those big smooth tits rising and falling; the sharp twinkle of the clamps that are attached to them. Rogers is so gone it takes him a moment… But “Thank you,” eventually slides out. “Thank you, daddy.” Another great roll of that chest. “Will you hurt me some more, daddy? Please. I want more.”

And _christ_ , that makes Brock’s dick jerk so hard he almost comes. Like that’d be even seemly. Coming untouched is something Brock likes to keep special, keep for when Jack’s dick is deep inside him. That, along with those big hands in his hair and at his throat; filthy, nasty words in his ear about what he is, what he wants, just this harsh rasp like, “you want it harder, you fucker? You fucking disgusting fucking fuck. Ask for it then. Beg for it harder. Fuckin’ hole.”… 

“Please, Jack. Harder. Just fuck me until I -“ Sometimes, often, that would be enough.

But that sort of thing was not for now, Rogers didn’t need to see any of that.

And the voice then, the sudden, low voice behind him is a surprise that makes him still his fingers, hold himself tighter. He’s not sure if it’s a good surprise or bad one.

“Having a party without me, kids?”

It’s Jack. Of course, it’s Jack.*

Brock turns and…, oh, christ it’s so goddamn fucked up how his attention refocusses, so quick. A second ago, he couldn’t tear his gaze from Rogers’s almost physically unfeasible and beautifully wounded body - but now Jack is here there’s a moment he almost forgets about Rogers completely.

It’s all he can fucking do not to slip off the bed, get on his knees and crawl over to kiss Jack’s big boots. _Those boots, oh to lick and lick them and beg for Jack’s dick - beg, every bit as prettily as Rogers does - and be laughed at and called ‘filthy queer’ and ‘fucking faggot’ and slapped hard and given nothing. Nothing except the chance to kneel and hold the backs of Jack’s hard thighs, with his mouth open and his tongue pressed out eagerly, while Jack jerked over his face to a low monologue of how much Brock disgusts him._

Jack’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over chest, sleeves rolled. He’s popped a few shirt buttons and he’s still wearing his shades, which means it’s his intention, in this presentation, to purposely leave Brock’s mouth dry with lust and helpless to it. He’s not adverse to playing to his strengths to get what he wants.

Although, hell, none of them are. In fact, Rogers kicked off this whole afternoon delight by wandering into the living room in the tightest white vest and a pair of yoga pants hanging off his tiny hips, and just stared at Brock with this fucking starved-masochist look, suggesting that if Rogers didn’t have the living fucking shit beaten out of him by Brock in the next twenty minutes he’d be out of the street inviting strangers to do it.

 _Rogers_ … Brock checks himself. Looks back from the vision in the doorway to the vision on the bed. And Rogers is looking at Jack too. Looking with a sort of glazed, messy lust, because he’s a pain slut, currently buzzed off his perfect tits on endorphins and he thinks he knows what’s about to happen now.

He has no fucking idea what’s about to happen now.

Rogers has never seen what Brock and Jack get up to, but there’s no way he hasn’t heard them, and not a chance that he hasn’t seen the residues it leaves on Brock’s body. The finger-shaped bruises around Brock’s throat, the boot prints on the backs of his thighs, the circular burns on the thin skin of his inner arms. Brock doesn’t like pain the way Rogers likes pain. But he likes what it means that he lets Jack hurt him for pleasure.

He’s still staring when Jack removes is shades, rights himself from the doorway and saunters into the room. “The way you treat that pet of yours,” he says lazily as he reaches the bed, “that ain’t right. Should I call animal control?”

Brock frowns. “Likes it don’t he?” he says, tapping Rogers’s cheek with an open palm. There’s a tiny shake in his voice.

“Yeah?” Jack bends a little at the waist and inspects Rogers’s marked-up body. He takes his time looking. “Fucking hell,” he says eventually, long and slow, wrapped around an exhale, “‘Spose this is what happens to a fucker who can’t get drunk. Gotta do all this to lose it. What a fucking whore.” Rogers makes the tiniest bitten-off moaning noise, but Jack clocks it and responds, grabbing Roger’s jaw, like it’s a such drag to have to do so, and spitting casually on Rogers’s face. Saliva lands on Rogers’s upper lip and his hips jerk. “Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit,” Jack says. Rogers gasps again, and Jack shakes his head like he can’t believe this crap. “Christ, you really fucking want it, doncha?”

Brock can see Rogers trying to work out if he should answer this, but before he can, Jack turns to Brock and says, “So, I’ve been thinking for a while, that I’d like to fuck your fag-hole, fag. An’ I reckon you’re gonna let me, right? You’re gonna just step aside and let me have it, yeah?” He smiles and his eyes crinkle. “Sweetheart?”

Brock looks at Jack, then at Rogers, then back at Jack. Jack’s obscene fucking tongue is gliding back and forth behind his back teeth. The blinds are down, but it’s a sunny day and enough light is spilling through to catch the wet of it. It’s so filthy, just that tongue moving, Brock thinks, if Jack ever let him, he could probably jerk off just staring at Jack’s mouth. Then he nods, takes his hands off Rogers and swings one leg over to climb off. As he turns, Jack catches his face, pulls him close and presses his mouth to Brock’s ear. “You’re gonna love this,” Jack breathes, soft and faintly smoky. “I got plans.”

Brock shivers as he stands up and waits and watches as Jack climbs onto the bed and straddles Rogers’s little waist, reaching out straight away to flick a thumb over one of Rogers’s clamped tits, - making Rogers screw his eyes up. Jack is still stroking at it when he looks up at Brock, “Move out of the way, you fucker. I don’t need you stood right there with your pathetic fucking erection in my face. Get down on the fucking floor, you asshole.”

Brock lowers himself to his knees.

“Yeah. Good,” says Jack, pulling idly now at the chain connecting Rogers’s tits; he has it taut so the teeth of the clamps are each pulling a pinch of nipple and tit-skin upwards, Rogers is fucking writhing - panting at the pain. 

Jack’s not even looking at what he’s doing, he flaps his free hand at Brock on the floor. “Further away.” Brock shuffles back and Jack gestures again. “Further, yeah, yeah. Right over there. Good. Nice.” By the time Jack is happy, Brock is in the corner of the room, naked, on his knees, struggling to see much of what’s on the bed.

And then Jack turns and pulls hard on the chain he’s holding, brutally yanking off the clamps right off Rogers’s tits. Rogers bellows like an animal, the sound like an electric shock right through Brock’s dick. Everything shudders and it looks, for a second, like Rogers might break the handcuffs.

“Yeah,” Jack breathes, as Rogers’s body sinks back down and the bed stops shaking. “Nice.” His big shoulders heave for a second. “Oh, one of them pretty tits is bleeding.” And he dabs one of his fingers at Rogers’s bloody nipple, roughly, making Rogers writhe and hiss, then licks it off, carelessly.

Rogers’s wrists are still in the cuffs. But he’s shaking. Jack lowers his face an inch or two, speaks in a low nasty tone. “Now, Captain Sick Fuck, I think you understand, I don’t care about you like dear daddy does. I’m the bad man, you see. I’m the nasty bastard you dream about. I’m the fucker who can make your handsome cock-sucking daddy cry. And this is going to hurt - not in that way you like." And out of his top pocket, Jack takes a cigarette case.

Jack flips the case open one handed and takes out a smoke, revolving it in his fingers so the filter tip points towards Rogers, still taut and panting under him. “I never did like these things,” he says, flicking at the filter, “they take all the goodness out, but I couldn’t get the untipped ones in the grocery store. Stupid bitch said they don’t stock them. You gonna fix this for me, fag?” he taps Rogers’s cheek with the fingers of an open hand - and Roger’s swallows visibly, as Jack leans forward and presses the butt of the smoke into Rogers’s mouth. “Yeah. Good fag. Bite that crap off for me wouldja?”

Rogers looks confused for a short moment, then does as he’s told. There is a tiny glint of bright, white, super-soldier teeth as he bites through the smoke, removing the filter neatly. “Yeah. Good,” says Jack, flipping the smoke around and into his mouth. He presses the fingers of his other hand over Rogers’s mouth, closing it, keeping them there as he takes out his lighter and he says. “You can swallow that, fuck-hole. No need for mess.” And Rogers’s eyes stretch wide for a small second before he just fucking does it. Swallows the end of Jack’s smoke with a gulp. And then Jack lights up with the familiar big square zippo. 

As he puts the case and lighter down, he turns his head to smile at Brock and smugly blows out a soft cloud of blue smoke. 

“Now then,” says Jack on his second exhale, “isn’t this nice? Boys night in. What a joy. What a treat.” He takes another puff. “So, you gonna ask me me nicely for this, Miss America?”

Rogers frowns. It makes him look dumb. “I-i don’t know what you want,” he says, voice shaking.

Jack sighs like he’s just been presented with the most arduous chore, draws his arm back and punches Rogers hard in the face, cigarette juddering between his teeth as he does it. In the corner, Brock flinches. It was a punch that would have knocked other men unconscious. But this is Rogers, so there’s just a moment of gasping and struggle before he rights himself and opens his eyes, spluttering, “I don’t. I’m sorry. Sir? I’m sorry, sir?”

Jack grins and pats Rogers’s cheek again, taking the smoke from his mouth and flicking ash carelessly onto Rogers’s face. “Sir? Ah, ya piece of shit, call me what you like. Call me ‘fucker’ if it helps. But I know what you want to call me. And you will. You know who I fucking am. Now, you want a drag on this, hole?” he waves his smoke in Rogers’s face.

“N-no.” Rogers gulps.

Rogers seems to brace for another punch. But it doesn’t come. Jack just shrugs then brings the cigarette to his lips again. “Tell him, cocksucker. Tell it what I’m gonna do. What would I do if I had you spread under me like this, hard and jerking into the crack of my ass. What would I do to you?”

Brock swallowed. “You’d stub your smoke out on me,” a swallow, “daddy.”

“Yep. Good answer, whore-fucker.” And Jack looks over at him. “‘Cause daddy knows what you need. And you need to be punished when you act all needy like that.” Jack turns back, drops his head and moves his face closer to Rogers’s. “’Cause sometimes your daddy needs his daddy, y’know." He shrugs. "Needs control. Real strict control. Needs daddy to put his smoke out on his chest, on his arms... Don’t even tie him up, half the time. Just light up, smoke up, then ask him to roll his sleeve for me. He always does it. Not a word. Not a peep. Not even when I grind it down - even if he has to bite his tongue to blood to keep quiet like daddy wants. He likes it." Jack winks. "Not like a slut, not a whore for it like you, Miss America. But he likes it. An’ he likes it too it if I press down on the burns later when I fuck him, likes it if I pull out early enough to paint them white. He’s worse than you Rogers, worse than you for it, cause you only get off on getting hurt by a fag pussy like him, kinda understandable, but he’s so sick he has to come to a fucking monster like me or the dirty little cock hungry fucker can’t even feel it.”

Brock can see Rogers shiver. 

“He ever say to you,” Jack says, “order comes from pain, or some shit?”

Rogers nods in response, dumb and overloaded.

“Yeah. And you know, it sounds like bullshit right, but I reckon he might know what he’s talking about, seeing as how he’s quite willing to press his tongue out and let me use it as an ashtray, fill his mouth with cigarette butts and have him thank me for it, grateful for daddy’s attention. Or he’ll keep his hands on his thighs while I burn the wet head of his pathetic dick.” Rogers goes a little paler. And it’s not like he couldn’t take that, he fucking likes pain, but it’s the idea Brock letting Jack do that to him. It’s blowing Rogers’s mind. And Brock, Brock is just fucking sitting in the corner and letting Jack do this. “So,” says Jack, and his smoke is burnt down close to his thick fingers now, “do you want it, baby? Tell you what, you choose. I’ll put this out on you, or I can pop over there and get your daddy to open his mouth for it. Which is it to be?”

Rogers almost sneers at this, like that would even be a tough decision for him. “Me,” he says, rough, “me, you fucker.”

“Yeah, nice. That’s nice, fucking nobel masochist shit. Brings a tear to the eye. Think you get off on that most all,” says Jack. ”But I wasn’t asking you.” And Jack turns, “Well,” he says to Brock. “You want this or you want me to fuck up your cock sheath here?” And he waves the butt in the air. The tip glowing orange. The room has got darker since they began this and the light from it leaves a little afterglow as it moves. “You hungry for a bit of daddy’s attention?”

Brock swallows. “No.” He sets his jaw. “Do him. Hurt him. Fuck him up and let me watch.”

“Cute.” Jack shrugs. “I know you’re lying. You’re dying of jealousy over there. Fucking cuckold. Don’t want your pet to know how much you want it. He knows though, you stupid fucker. He fucking knows... But don’t you worry, faggot. I’ll save plenty for you.” Jack turns back again to talk to Rogers on the bed. “When it comes to your daddy, pain whore, I am generous to a fault. And why shouldn’t I be? Just look at him there, kneeling there, letting me do whatever I want, say whatever I want. What a fucking desperate whore.” Jack shakes his head softly like this pleases him. “And, talking of which, I was thinking of hurting you right here.” He presses a forefinger to the indent between Rogers’s great, smooth tits. “Right where you got that star on your dumb fucking uniform. Pretty, huh?” Jack scratched at the skin there with his fingernail. “Nice to know that showgirl star’ll be pressing and rubbing on the place your daddy’s own daddy likes to hurt you best of all…You want that?”

Roger’s is nodding - nodding woozily like he doesn’t know where he is. 

Brock’s dick twitches as thinks of pressing on that star himself tomorrow at work. Even if the wound is healed, it’ll still be a nice reminder. Without really thinking, he fists his dick. He’s so hard already, so wanting, he almost moans at his own touch. 

And then Jack takes the smoke from his mouth, says, “Ready, faggot?” and slowly, fucking languorously, pushes it into Rogers’s flesh, and Rogers yells with the pure, white-hot pain - yells so hard and clear that Brock can feel it, himself, and feel it right in his dick; he knows exactly how it is: that burn - almost cold. And Rogers’s hard, wet dick actually jolts with greedy wanton need, and at that, at the way Rogers is such a whore for pain, Brock is jerking himself desperately. And Jack is still pushing the cigarette into Rogers, taking his time and _grinding_ down with it, while Rogers howls and howls as it goes on, yanking at the cuffs that hold him so hard that his wrists are going to be torn to shreds. 

When it’s done, all of them are panting. Jack says, “Not bad. You got me hard there, baby, well done.” 

He turns to Brock again, “And if you don’t take your fucking filthy hands off your disgusting dick, fuck hole, I’m going to come over there, cut it off and fuck you with it.” He says this level and low, like he’s discussing the weather. 

Brock catches his breath, swallows and takes his hands off himself. He almost whines at losing the touch while Rogers is still writhing in pain, keening, and his big, hurt body so beautiful. 

Jack nods. “You don’t fucking touch that, fag. You don’t use me to jerk off. You don’t touch it at all, okay? You want to come, get out and rub it out in your own room. Or beg for my cock in you and maybe you’ll get lucky that way. But those are your choices. You got it? Say you understand?”

Brock swallows. “I understand.”

“Good. Now put your fucking hands on your fucking head and keep them there.” And Brock does as he’s told, sickening a bit from with the humiliation of it and is rewarded by a slow, thin smile from Jack. His chest is heaving, he tries to let his breathing slow and for the first time, he notices Rogers staring at him.

“You know,” Jack says to Brock, “my first thought was that I would fuck it with you. Get you to put your dick in it and then fuck you. Slam you hard into you own pet thing with my dick. Nice, huh?” Brock nodded, dumb with shame, he felt like he couldn’t get his breath. “But then I realised how much I would enjoy watching you watch me and getting nothing,” As he speaks Jack slides two fingers into his mouth and speaks around them, “So I’m gonna fuck it. And you are gonna keep your hands where they are and you ain’t gonna touch yourself or come at all, you know. Not during any of this.” He takes his fingers from his mouth and begins to shove them into Rogers. Rogers moans - Rogers’s loves it rough there, barely prepared, fingers shoving into him fast so it burns - and Brock flinches at this and the rough sound. “Maybe not even for the rest for the week,” Jack says casually. “I’d like to see what that does to you. How much you’d beg. Tease you right until you were about to shoot and then stop and tell you, you had to wait a week. Do that again and again until you’re just following me around, a weeping cock, begging me to let you jerk yourself off against the floor.” 

Helpless to this thought, Brock moans out loud. “Fucker,” he whimpers, after, not even if sure if Jack hears him. He looks down at his own hard dick, so sensitive and straining for attention. The fact he’s not allowed to touch it, isn’t going to be allowed to get off, almost makes him moan again.

On the bed, Rogers has three fingers in him now and is fucking writhing. Jack isn’t even looking at him, he’s still smiling over at Brock, panting and frustrated. “That’s right,” he says to Brock. “Build up a nice head-a steam, watching this, desperate fucking whore.” And with that, he repositions and fucks into Rogers, barely prepared, nothing but a bit of spit. 

Rogers screams and tries to pull away from that first thrust, but Jack grabs his little hips and holds him in place, all but drags him onto his cock. “Oh you better fucking be able to take this, you sick fucking motherfucker, because it is about to get much much worse. There’s a way fags like you need to be fucked, and this is, this is it.” Jack thrusts into Rogers hard a few more times, each time harder and more carelessly brutal, Rogers hardly stretched out at all. This is plain fucking nasty, even for him. And at each thrust Rogers howls - makes a confused noise of pain and desperate wanton need. He’s twisting in the cuffs, and Brock’s mouth is dry, his dick is drooling on his thigh. _Jesus, this is fucking hot_. Jack slaps at Rogers’s chest - slaps his bleeding tits and the ugly fresh burn mark on his chest. Rogers is a fucking mess - even with most of what Brock had done healing. But, mess or not, he’s thrusting up from the bed now, trying to take more of Jack’s thick, barely- wet dick. Rogers’s own erection, which had not flinched even when Jack pressed the burning tip of his smoke into his chest, is harder than ever, blush-red and weeping and jerking onto Roger’s hard belly.

And Roger’s can’t stop moaning. He’s moaning and fucking keening like he hasn’t had a dick in him for months, thrashing around; tears in the fucker’s eyes.

“Look at me,” Jack grabs Rogers’s chin. “Yeah. Look at me, fag, and tell me you love this.”

Rogers is breathing hard and fast. “I love this,” he says, his voice all broken up and needy. “Please, don’t stop. I love it. Harder.”

Jack slaps the burn again. “Daddy,” Jack says, “Please don’t stop, daddy.”

Brock’s breath catches, he feels icy inside. 

But Rogers’s eyes are glassy, his pupils blasted open. He’s forgotten Brock’s even in the room. “Daddy,” he says softly, looking right at Jack. “Fuck me, daddy. Fuck me hard.”

“That’s right,” snarls Jack. “That’s so, so right. So nice. Now tell your daddy you love his dick in you.” Jack was thrusting hard, already close. Brock wasn’t surprised he was there so quick. He loved causing pain. Brock had seen Jack come untouched, more than once, just from his favourite trick with the cigarettes. Jerking sudden, when Brock screamed out, broken, begging not to have to take any more.

“I love it, daddy." Rogers chokes. "Love your dick in me. Please, harder. More.” And he's fucking losing it. Drunk on pain and rough, violent sex.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack snarls. He lifts one of Rogers’s huge legs onto his shoulder, takes the weight of it with a single grunt, and starts to thrust harder, “Now, faggot, say 'I love you daddy’. Tell daddy you love him.”

_Brock’s heart just flips right over._

Rogers’s glassy gaze never leaves Jack. “I love you, daddy,” he says, panting round his words, half of them lost to breath, but everything he says clear enough. “Please fuck me. Just use me, daddy, come in me. I love it. I love you.”

And Brock’s heart is in pieces. His dick twitches and he lets his head tip back, his own fingers twisting in his hair.

“That’s very sweet of you, darling,” says Jack. “But I got better ideas than coming in ya. I wanna come on those sweet fucking tits, babe.” And he pulls his dick slickly out of Rogers and starts jerking it, using the other hand to scratch, pinch and worry at the fresh burn on Rogers’s chest. In a moment, Rogers is screaming, jerking around in pain, rattling the handcuffs, and Jack is panting hard, harder than ever - ‘cause, of course, he fucking loves that - and then coming and coming all over Rogers’s heaving, wounded tits. 

“Yeah nice,” Jack says again as he catches his breath. He climbs off the bed and fastens his pants. “Nice party guys. We should do it again. Oh, but I’ve left your fuckhole in a mess.” He turns to Brock, at the same time, reaching over and trailing a finger in the spill all over Rogers’s tits. “Come here and clean him off would you,” he says, bringing his own finger to his lips and licking at it.

Brock takes his hands from his head and, watching Jack, crawls over to the bed, the humiliation making his hard dick, hot between his legs, shame filling his belly and his throat. Jack slaps his ass as he gets up onto bed and he looks at Rogers, still messy with hurt and need, and with Jack’s semen all over him. Jack says, “You can use your mouth - won’t exactly make that any dirtier, will it?” and Brock just swallows once and dips his head, and starts to lick the sour filth away from Roger’s hot heaving chest.

He does it slow and makes it good. Lapping gently at Rogers huge, hard tits. Even moaning a bit. Jack makes a soft sound every time he gets a good look at Brock’s tongue gliding over Rogers’s flesh, so, after he’s finished Rogers’s left tit, Brock sits up, turns his head and looks at Jack, licking his lips slowly. And Jack’s face is suddenly soft and needy. He exhales a little wanting breath. Brock looks at Jack’s mouth, tongue still playing behind his teeth, until… until…

Panting, Jack leans in and kisses him. Slowly, and then hard and fast and greedy and god, it’s good. It’s so good. Brock moans into Jack’s mouth like he’s starving for this. Jack’s dressed now and Brock’s still naked and wanting. Jack’s hands are everywhere, on Brock’s bare flesh, but mostly on Brock’s ass, kneading it until he’s thrusting back onto Jack’s fingers. Jack kisses and kisses him, biting his lips, rough stubble grazing over his jaw, giving him gooseflesh. 

Finally, Jack pulls back from the kiss, murmuring, "Yeah," but still stroking at Brock’s ass, fingers so close to his hole he twitches with want. Jack looks down at Rogers. “Yeah nice. I enjoyed that... Maybe I’ll piss over it next time. It’s so filthy that’s hardly gonna matter.” 

Rogers jolts and moans, whispers, “Please.”

“Yeah,” Jack looks at him, trails his fingers in the come smears Brock hasn't licked away. “That good for you, fucker? You want daddy to piss in your open mouth, while you try and tell me how much you want it without spilling?”

Rogers is just staring at Jack. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, daddy. Please.”

And Brock’s mouth finds Jack’s ear and he breathes, “You fucking bastard.”

Jack just reaches around and shoves two come-slick fingers, fast, into Brock's ass - so hard he has to bite down on a yelp. “I love you too, faggot,” Jack says.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for writing this. Sorry for uploading it here. Sorry.
> 
> My tumblr, you know, come on over http://mathildia.tumblr.com/
> 
> This fic and discussion of it under this tag http://mathildia.tumblr.com/tagged/jack-x-brock-x-steve


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